The Blue Hero
by pikachuprinplup
Summary: High Elf Fareen lives an ordinary life until one day, a horrifying attack on his family throws his life in to chaos; he vows revenge, and a new Hero of Skyrim, protector of the innocent, is born. M for language and future gory scenes.
1. Chapter 1

The Blue Hero

Prologue:

The Hunt

Fareen Sunborn was a High Elf living in Riverwood, a small town in Skyrim. His life was quite ordinary for a while; he would wake in the morning, eat his breakfast, do his work tending to the goat and help with other duties in the farm with his father, then study destruction and conjuration magic in the afternoon, depending on what mood he was in; eat his dinner and then his mother would teach him restoration and illusion. He would eat his supper then go to bed. The work and studies were hard, but he was always eager to learn more.

Eventually he moved to a new home in Whiterun. When visiting his parents one day, however, he found them both dead. He reported this to the guards, who had been sent there many years ago when the dragons returned, and stayed long after the threat became so small they had more chance of being attacked by a fire-breathing yellow and green skeever than be attacked by one of the ferocious beasts.

"Guards! Guards!" He yelled, horror filling his heart. He examined his father's body; five stab wounds in the chest and a slit throat; dead, surely. He then repeated this disgusting process on his mother. He found, to his surprise, that she was still barely alive.

"It's alright, mother." He assured her, battling his fear and confusion. "You'll be fine." He thought back to the last lesson he had taken in restoration; he had remembered learning about Healing Hands, a spell that would heal whomever the caster chose. He started using it, putting all of his years of studies and training in to action. He felt his magika drain quickly, but urged himself to keep casting the spell until he could use it no more. She was looking a little better, but he blood was still pouring out from a wound in her chest.

Guards had by now filled the small house, five of them in total, weapons drawn.

"The…" His mother whispered, weakly.

"No, shh, you'll be fine. Save your energy." He tried to keep her quiet, but this frustrated her, as he could see on her face.

"The br-bre-breton…" She whispered this, her pale face growing paler by the second. Her blood was still spilling despite his attempts. These words proved to be her last as her eyes stared up at the ceiling and then just.. stopped, staring forever at that same spot. He cried out in despair and anger.

"No!" He screamed.

The guards had not heard her last words, instead searching the house for any indication of the murder weapon used, or anything out of place.

A rather muscular guard came to him, his steel sword drawn, a bloody dagger in hand.

"I believe," He started, his helmet gone, his face looking nervous, choosing his words carefully, "That this dagger was the weapon used to kill these people. You're all elves; would I be right in presuming that these were relatives?" He asked. "Yes, they are-were, my parents." Fareen murmured, quietly. "By the Divines, I will find their killer," He started, getting louder, until he yelled, "And I will do the same to him as he did to my family!"

The guard looked shocked. "Err… listen, I don't want to sound… unsympathetic, but you mustn't pursue or fight the murderer. My fellow guards will sort out that problem ourselves; there is no place for civilians in the field of carrying out justice."

Fareen knew any further protests would simply anger the guards, and would get him nowhere; certainly, he would have his revenge, but he would make sure that the guards had no idea that he would be the one taking the life of the bastard who had done this.

"Of course… it was just an outburst. If you will excuse me, I will go to my own home and retire for the evening. If you would like to talk to me, I would be of no use to you today. I shall return tomorrow, in the evening.

The guard excused him, a sympathetic look on his face, as more guards poured in and searched the house.

So a Breton had killed his parents, one who had access to a dagger, but nothing more. He mulled this over; a dagger would be a good choice to carry if the killer was not known to carry weapons, as it was easily concealed. If the killer was not known to carry a weapon, the blade would probably be purchased recently for the specific purpose of killing his parents; but the killer, if he had any sense, wouldn't have purchased it using his or her real name, or showing their face.

Before making his way home, he walked to the blacksmith's house; when he was a child, the house had belonged to Alvor, but now his daughter owned the house, and continued using the forge herself. He knew she was a very talented blacksmith; on numerous occasions his father had bought armour from her, which often outlasted the armour bought from others.

"Dorthe! Dorthe, are you in?" He asked, knocking on her door frantically. Within a minute, she was at the door.

"Oh! Fareen! Come in, come in! How have you been?" She asked, a smile on her face. They had been friends in their childhood years.

"I'm guessing you haven't heard, then?" He asked, his voice low and dark.

"Heard what?" Her tone became more serious, as her face did.

"I'll explain in a moment; first, I need to ask you; has anybody purchased an iron dagger from you recently?"

"Well, a strange man came to me last week; he was wearing a hood and black robes, and I couldn't see his face. He bought a dagger, a pair of iron boots and a pair of gauntlets. He didn't leave his name. Other than that, the last one to buy any small blade from me was five months ago. Is that enough? I wouldn't usually divulge such information, Fareen."

"That's enough, yes. I suppose I should tell you now… my parents… they…"

The look on his face told her what she needed to know.

"By the Gods! Are you... do you need anything?" Her face was filled with sympathy and caring.

"No. I think it would be best if I go home now. You have been wonderful, Dorthe."

She nodded, and as he approached the door, he turned.

"Oh, and Dorthe? If anybody at all asks, I came her for sympathy. I didn't ask anything."

She seemed confused, but not wishing to further upset her friend, she said "Of course," and watched as he left.

That did little except confirm his theory, but it proved that the man was intelligent and knew what he was doing. Also, it showed he was planning another attack; his mother had seen his face, but he had purchased a helmet, so he must have been planning to use the armour in a different attack on somebody else.

Dorthe would have recognized his voice had he been from Riverwood, so that meant he was from a different city. Such a man would have moved to the nearest city after such a thing, most likely; either Helgen or Whiterun. He decided to find out from an old woman who just loved gossiping; Camilla Valerius. She would have seen, and would tell Fareen which way he went. He walked to her house. It was once a General Goods store, but one day her brother died of illness, and she closed the shop, unable to keep the work up on her own.

He knocked on the door, and she called him in.

"What do you want?" She snapped, then saw who he was. She was sitting on a small wooden chair.

"Oh.. I'm sorry, my dear. I didn't know it was… I'm sorry about your parents."

"Thank you, Camilla. I've come to ask a small favour of you, if you would be so kind."

All the while, his eyes moved around the small house, looking at the dust, the cobwebs, and the bugs crawling on the walls.

"Of course! Anything for you."

"I need you to tell me if you have seen a man wearing a hood and black robes come in or out of the town today."

She nodded. "Oh, yes! I saw him leave, going north last I saw." Her eyes were eager to share this with Fareen.

"Thank you. You have been most kind. Please don't tell anyone I asked you."

"Alright… I suppose."

He left.

So, he was in Whiterun. Probably sleeping in an inn.

The hunt had begun.


	2. Revenge

**The Blue Hero**

**Chapter one**

**Revenge**

It was time. Fareen had chosen his method carefully; using a dagger would be ironic and would tell the world that it was Fareen; he wouldn't be able to make it look like suicide, either, as he was not very good at elaborate tricks without a longer time and more equipment to work with; he would have to make it look like a tragic accident. This he could do; he would find the Breton's room and burn him, then make it look like the fire had been caused by something else. The alcohol would certainly help, too.

He went to his home in Whiterun, where he noticed a letter had been delivered, along with a bag of coins; his inheritance. There were one hundred septims. He set aside seventy septims, then took the thirty in anticipation of the job he would soon do. It could be used to bribe or get information; or, in the worst case scenario, buy someone's silence.

He opened his chest and took an iron helmet. The last time he'd worn it was a year ago, but it wasn't too strange putting it on. He sighed, and went upstairs, looking out of the windows, in case the Breton had allies who would be coming over. After waiting for an hour (during which he ate his dinner) he decided it was time to move in. He prepared his flame spell and drank an old Potion of Destruction. He also put a Potion of Minor Stamina in his bag, for a quick escape.

It started snowing.

He went in to the Bannered Mare, where he was fairly sure his target would be staying, and entered. Aside from his helmet, he looked innocent enough. He sat down at the bar and bought a bottle of mead, with his own money – not from the inheritance. He drank half of it and put the bottle down.

He took the bartender aside.

"You wouldn't happen to know about that man over there, would you?" He asked, his voice soft and innocent. He pointed at a Breton wearing a black cloak. No hood or helmet.

"I might. But why should I tell you?" The bartender, a Nord man, was slightly hostile. "I keep my customer's information private."

Fareen nodded, smiling. "Oh, I fully understand, my friend. But please, know that I myself am a potential customer and I can be quite generous in my tips. And I know a few people who might need some warm beds when they pass through Whiterun… as long as you can do me that favour."

The bartender looked uncertain.

"How about this?" He took 15 Septims and placed them in the Nord's hand.

"Does that help?"

The Nord smiled. "He checked in two days ago, left, then came back yesterday, left again, came back today lugging a big bag about with him. It's in his room now. He was wearing a hood the first time he came in, then a helmet. Fancy one, that. A good blacksmith must have made it. He seems like he's got a lot of money."

Fareen stopped him before he went on.

"Thank you, that's all I need to know. Now… do you know how to get people angry around here?"

The Nord seemed surprised. "Pardon? Why would you want to get people angry?"

Fareen sighed. "To trick people, it's… never mind. Don't speak of this, and tell me what I want to know. Don't intervene when the next thing happens and we'll be fine. And if you do as I say later, you'll be 15 septims richer."

The Nord nodded. "Well, that gentleman over there just hates being criticized. Doesn't like Argonians." The Nord was pointing to another Nord; not very muscular, but he seemed angry already. Fareen could take him.

"Thanks."

He took off his helmet and pulled up his hood, and walked over to the Nord. The Nord raised his head.

"What do _you_ want,_ Elf_?"

"I heard you're against our Argonian friends, and I don't like the way you're acting, _Nord._" The venom in his voice was very convincing.

"Too bad! Watch your mouth, or that ugly Elf face is gonna be even uglier!"

"You Nords… always acting like you can take on anything. Typical."

The Nord jumped up, fists out.

"Alright, buddy! I'm tired of this; I'll kill you!" He took a swing at Fareen's face, and Fareen stumbled back. Another shot, but Fareen ducked, and drove a right hook in to his enemy's face. While he was stunned, he punched him three times again. All the while, onlookers yelled to the fighters. He expected the Nord to yield, but instead, he saw him suddenly bring his head up, and felt himself get grabbed. The Nord jabbed and hit him in the face, but Fareen caught his right hand as he made another attack, then used his own right hand to hit him in the face five times.

"Alright, you've proven yourself, just let me go and you and I won't have any trouble!"

Fareen stumbled over to the bartender.

"He roughed you up. Surprised someone who acts so confident like you would get hit that bad."

Fareen allowed himself a smug grin. "Well, gotta be convincing. Alright, ask that Breton to take me in to his room while you apparently sort out my own, just so I can be away from all this."

The Nord did as instructed, and Fareen slipped the promised 15 septims in to his accomplices' pocket. He took the bottle of mead with the rest of the good stuff inside.

He was sat in the Breton's room, looking at his target's face.

"That Nord roughed you up pretty badly over there." The Breton looked friendly. His eyes seemed to be trustworthy, his voice was warm and welcoming. He was, clearly, a good actor. Fareen was surprised; he had been expecting a rough, perhaps stoic man; not such a skilled speaker as this man was.

They both heard a muffled bash.

"Ah, one moment. Seems my little magical experiment is starting to get a little… excited. I'll be back just as soon as I've sorted out the problem."

He went over to the other side of the room, where there was a door for a smaller part of the same room, added when a new owner came in to some money; this was the most expensive room. The Breton closed the door behind him, and Fareen grabbed the mead, and the Breton's wine off the top of the shelf, and went over to the door. This was his chance. With one drink in each hand, he pressed his ear against the door. He heard the Breton angrily speaking in a hushed tone.

"Just – stop – moving! Shut up. I'm going to kill you! Do you want it to be slow, and painful, Elf? Then stop! I swear to Sithis, I will rip you apart."

The Breton then started walking. Excitement rushed through Fareen's body; now was his chance to avenge his parents.

The Breton opened the door and Fareen threw the contents of both bottles in to his face. The Breton seemed to be a little surprised. "What the fuck was that f-"

He was cut off by Fareen summoning flame in to his hands, and using the spell on the Breton. The alcohol made the flames even worse, burning the hair on the Breton's head, spreading to the rest of his body. Instead of dying, however, the Breton punched Fareen in the face. The punch was worse than any punch Fareen had ever taken; it was strong, steady and stunning. In momentary surprise, he stumbled back, then regained his fighting stance, summoning more flames, but the Breton drew another dagger. This one must have been bought recently, since the old one had not been regained.

He slashed at Fareen, leaving a huge cut along his shoulder, all while he was still on fire. Fareen then felt a stab, and the attack went through his tunic, drawing a lot of blood. The fire had, by now, spread to the rest of the room. Leaving Fareen like that, the Breton ran off to fetch water for himself, while Fareen lay on the floor, bleeding, surrounded by flames. He heard a cry from the Breton – "Fire! Fire! Everybody get out!"

Now there was nobody to help him, as the people who were apparently the "bravest" species ran, screaming or yelling, abandoning anyone stuck inside. Fareen forced himself up, about to leave, but then he remembered the elf that the Breton had been threatening.

He stumbled in to the room, were fire was – well, everywhere, and saw only a sack. He grabbed it and opened it up. Inside was a Dark Elf, with a broken arm and a badly cut leg. He grabbed hold of her, and together, wordlessly, they managed to get out of the room, and get downstairs, despite their injuries. There, they noticed the fire had already spread, thanks to the reckless use of it.

"Damn idiot… what was I thinking!" Fareen muttered to himself. They got outside, and started moving a little faster away.

Fareen looked again, as something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. There was a piece of paper on the only wall which had not started burning. The paper was stuck on it due to the dagger the Breton had attacked Fareen with.

He read the note. It said simply –

"If you fight the Dark Brotherhood, it's best to come prepared.

Hate, Tristane"

Fareen sighed. The only good thing that had come from this misadventure was the discovery of the Breton's name and the fact that he worked for the Dark Brotherhood. As for the bad things?

He'd pissed off a Dark Brotherhood Assassin – and thus, the Dark Brotherhood. He'd burned down an inn. He'd made his target aware he was hunting him. It was not a good day.

He turned to the Dark Elf he'd saved. "Are you alright? Do you need some medical help?" he asked, trying to sound reassuring. He was never good at that.

"My leg cut is bleeding badly. If you can help with that-"

Fareen nodded, summoning the Healing Hands spell, hoping that it would turn out better than –

_No. Don't think about that. _

"Say no more, my friend."

He cast the spell, aiming the ray of healing at the Elf's leg. The bleeding started to slow, until it stopped completely, and the cut started to heal, but that was all he could do.

"Sorry, that's the best I can do for you. I'm not good at this."

The Dark Elf thanked him. "If you would help me with something else, I'd be happy to reward you as soon as I can with some of my money. I daren't go back home – that Breton will still be looking for me. I already knew he was, and I was making arrangements for a carriage to take me to Solitude; I live in Helgen. I will have one of my friends get the carriage hired again, but until then, would you allow me to share your home? I fear using any inn wouldn't be safe."

Fareen was a bit worried about that – his quest to kill the Breton was far from over, and if the Dark Elf got involved, it would complicate things. Still, he figured that she had suffered enough and may even be of use. It would be beneficial, in a way.

"Of… of course. I've got a spare room ready. If you'll help me with something very, very small, it'll be fine."

"Thank you! If I can, I will help in any way I possibly can. I owe you so much, after you saved my life… and now you allow me to share your own home. You do not know how much this means to me."

Thus began a friendship between Fareen and the Dark Elf, Tidril. Together, they would work to find the man who was hunting them..

But little did they know of the threat lurking in their own home, promising to end both of their lives.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_I almost felt some emotion. Almost. But not now, when I'm here in The Zone, and he is, and my… friend is._

_This is familiar and unfamiliar too. I have never been here or done this, but as soon as my distant, dark, dangerous friend brought me to eagerly end the existence of the dear Orc, and as soon as he had shown me the blood-stained table which I had assisted in strapping our vicious victim to, I knew what would happen._

_He looked like me, talked like me, thought like me, and showed me the possibility of what was to come. He, in some ways, _was_ me, but I was not him. I was something new._

_He licked his lips, his eyes narrowing, his breathing becoming heavy, and nodded to me. "Wake him up."_

_I heard the Lust, the Need, the ever-growing desperation for blood in his voice. He would have none, not today, he had promised me. My own Need was growing too, and it was time to satisfy it for some short amount of time before he inevitably took me to end another life._

_I slapped the Orc rather powerfully, three times in quick succession. He woke soon._

_He instantly tried to jump. The iron restraints were too powerful for his limbs, but that didn't stop him from thrashing about and making a lot of noise, disturbing us._

_I glanced at my mentor. He was angry, and hungry, and I knew he would end the life of this vermin soon if it did not cease its squawking. So I slapped it again._

"_Shut up. You may live longer."_

_It nodded. It was angry, but it would comply for now._

"_How pathetic you are. Taking the lives of these innocent people. You didn't care who you killed, did you?"_

"_Let me go!" It snapped._

"_You cannot threaten us. I'm sorry. We are in control."_

"_We? Who's we?"_

_My master stepped up. "Us."_

_He glanced at me. I saw the Look. Time._

"_Time's up. Thank you. For the door I hope you will open to me."_

_I picked up the butcher's knife from the small table next to him, raised it above his head, hearing him make pathetic, furious, desperate noises, and—_

Fareen woke up suddenly. He was breathing heavily, but why? He was not the Orc. He was the killer. Why should he fear the dream?

He knew why, in a way. Why kill? It had surely impacted his life in a bad way, and his one attempt to kill someone ended in him being targeted by the Dark Brotherhood, being hurt (quite badly) and left to realize he could not avenge his parents deaths.

Yet.

But, reluctant as he was to admit it to himself, deep inside there was a morbid curiosity. What would it feel like to drive a blade deep in to someone's heart and watch the blood spurt out as the light went out of his victim's eyes?

A kill would bring some clarity at least. A new way of thinking, maybe? A light at the end of the tunnel?

He did find inside him, it became steadily harder to feel. At first, since finding his parents slashed to bits, being forced to watch his mother slowly die, he felt rage and misery inside, but ever since, he was becoming more numb, going to increasingly more desperate lengths to feel; hunting the killer, taking in a fellow victim, and recently, brawling with muscly Nords at different Inns.

And now the next logical step was to kill.

But not a random victim, no, the one who caused him to become so numb.

But foolishly, he had charged in with no experience and a stupid plan, and let the killer vanish. Now, no matter where he looked, he could find no trace of the killer. Not that it was easy, with his Dark Elf friend watching him.

That was about to change…

It was three days since the dream. He woke up three hours earlier than his friend, and after a small breakfast consisting of venison meat and eggs, he opened the door to his home. He found, on the doorstep, a large sack with something inside it. On the sack, there was an address – his home – and a name – Fareen Sunborn.

He opened the sack. The first thing he saw was some sort of stain – red – oh. Blood.

Accompanying the blood was the head of a Wood Elf. The eyes of this Wood Elf conveyed horror. Two scars ran parallel to each other on the two cheeks of the head. The hair was matted with dried blood, which covered the stump where his neck once was.

There was no doubt in Fareen's mind – this was a message.

"I'm watching you, and you can't catch me."

And it was from his dear friend, Tristane.

He was back, hunting elves and killing them. A contract? A personal hatred? Who knows? All Fareen knew was that the object of his desires was out there, ever so slightly beyond his reach, mocking him. Killing, laughing, but staying distant.

And there was the feeling again – a flicker of anger, a flash of excitement.

Because his target was still real, still material.

Still killable.

Tristane was excited. He was about to kill again. Not the long, drawn out process of capturing a victim, immobilizing them, taking them to a kill room and then doing the deed, no, but the impulsive running, grabbing the victim, sticking them with the knife a few times, and then running away.

He needed to. He had let the Need build up for a few weeks, then released a message to his playmate, which let off some steam, but not enough…

And now he would come to the climax and kill.

For about a month, he hadn't done so, hadn't taken a life, much too long if you asked him, and now he would end it all for an unlucky Elf.

He stayed in the shadows, watching, following, but not touching.

He saw his target, a High Elf, walking the streets of Whiterun. He had followed for about twenty minutes, until his poor victim was away from the prying eyes of those foolish, flailing failures in Whiterun. He hummed a tune to himself, grabbed his steel dagger, and was about to pounce until –

A well-built Nord rounded the corner. He stopped to exchange pleasantries with the Elf, then went on his merry way. He waited until the Nord was gone, then started stalking again.

Now.

But wait. A guard came out of nowhere, coming dangerously close to Tristane's hiding place, and walked away.

NOW.

He started sprinting. He shouted "Hey!" quickly, and the Elf turned around. He plunged the knife in to his heart. Once, twice, thrice…

Then, when the dearly deceased dead body hit the floor, he starting running again, past the alchemist's, and in to the shadows.

**(A/N) Hey guys! Thanks for putting up with the long time between chapters. I'm pleased to say I will be shortening that time. In fact, I've got the next chapter lined up and ready to release soon. But you have to eat your greens before your chocolate. Sorry about that.**

**Please, please, please review, tell me what you like and dislike, and tell me what sort of thing you'd like to see in later chapters.**

**Or lemme put it this way….**

**That Elf's Head could be a human's. I know where you live, don't make me do it…..**


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The head was the only clue poor Fareen had as to the whereabouts of his nemesis. He had searched everywhere in Whiterun for a trace, but apparently, nobody had heard of Tristane, and the description of the Breton got no results either. Guards, citizens, shop owners, nobody had heard of him.

He decided against reporting the head to the guards. He wanted to administer his own justice, and anyway, this head was his one lead. If the guards took it, and he had overlooked something on the head, he may never find Tristane.

Despite this new clue, however, he could find nothing to point him to the Breton.

But one interesting thing did happen; the discovery of a body on the streets. Three stab wounds around the heart, a lot of blood loss… it all pointed to an instant death. At first, it struck Fareen that the Elf had been approached by a thief and either killed and had their possessions and money taken from their corpse, or were threatened and refused to give up such things, and then killed, but nothing was taken or even disturbed, and when the body was found, there was a lot of dried blood, so it wasn't as if the person was disturbed when trying to take the possessions of the victim.

No, this was something with intent. Everybody's favourite Elf killer was back. And Fareen resolved that he would catch him. But, as he sat, pondering the body late at night, he heard something outside his home; footsteps, stopping at his door. He got out of bed, grabbed his iron dagger, and prepared for a fight, about to wake Tidril, when he heard the lock being picked. But after just two seconds, there were more footsteps leading away from the house. The person had moved on. He went downstairs to the door, and threw a lot of random junk on the floor, grasped his dagger, which he would keep in his pocket, and went to bed, hoping that if the door was opened, the sounds of the items being hit by the door would wake him. However, that night, the would-be intruder did not return to his home.

The next day, he decided it was time to purchase some armour and weaponry in case the people who had almost broken in to his house returned. He went to the market, taking in the sights and smells; delicious fresh meat, cheese, fruits and vegetables, shiny jewels and detailed works of art. But also, he heard the sounds of the people, discussing prices, pondering whether or not to buy things, or just having general discussions. Amongst the crowd, one person caught his eye; an Argonian. Not many Argonians came to Whiterun. Still, it would be nice to take his mind off the unfortunate business of disembodied heads and people trying to break in to his home.

He walked over to him. "Hello," he said somewhat brightly, "what brings you to Whiterun?"

The Argonian looked at him for a moment, and he felt a chill; that was the same look he had from the Mentor in his dream.

After a while, the Argonian responded.

"I came to Whiterun to learn about… becoming a merchant…"

The Argonian picked his words carefully, never taking his eyes off Fareen.

"How long have you been here?"

The Argonian replied faster.

"Four days, but today is the first day I have spent much time outside of the local Inn. I have been using the room at a lower price since the fire." The Argonian was slightly hostile.

Before Fareen could ask another question, the Argonian pointed to a ring, and exclaimed "What a fine piece of jewellery!"

Fareen turned to look at the ring, but when he looked back, the Argonian had disappeared in to the crowd.

_That's odd, _he thought. Why would he leave like that? Had Fareen offended him?

He shook his head and noticed the weapon stall was open. A young Nord man was there, showing off several blades. Fareen stopped briefly to browse.

"I think I may have a few elven weapons, if you're interested," the Nord started. "They're expensive but they really _are _reliable. My father once cut clean through the bone of a skeleton with an elven weapon."

"I'm looking for something a little more affordable, actually." Fareen replied.

"I see. Well, how about an iron sword? The type the guards use. Or if you want something heavier, I have a greatsword somewhere…"

Fareen nodded and mumbled in a non-committal fashion, but just before the Nord retrieved another weapon, he noticed an iron mace in a display case.

"How much is that iron mace?" he asked, pointing to it. Light, strong, hopefully cheap – just what the elf looking for the murderer of his mother and father ordered.

The Nord thought about it. "Only one hundred septims, eighty if you buy a dagger to go with it."

Fareen replied, "I'll just take the mace, thanks." He paid the septims and the Nord unlocked the case. He drew the mace, and handed it to Fareen.

Fareen turned around and was about to leave when he noticed two men – it was hard to see what race they were – in armour, harassing the jeweller, a small female Imperial.

He couldn't tell what they were saying, but all of a sudden, one of them grabbed her by the throat and hit her. The other started pushing jewellery in to his bag. People stared and yelled, but nobody was doing anything.

Fareen grabbed his new mace in his right hand and ran up to the one still hitting her. By now the other was running away, and couldn't be caught.

Fortunately, the bright sun stopped the attacker from seeing Fareen until it was too late. He swung at the man's side, hitting him hard. He whirled around and pulled out a sword, but before he could attack, Fareen attacked again, this time to the stomach, penetrating the armour. The man stumbled back, in to the stone of a nearby house. Fareen took a final swing at the man's helmet, but he ducked quickly and struck back with a jab to Fareen's stomach, winding him. Fareen tried to block the attack which was coming, but the sword hit him, slashing his arm. Fareen swung again, low, on to his target's leg. The jolt sent his helmet right off, revealing he was a Nord. One more swing to the leg…

The attack missed and sent Fareen off balance. The Nord easily knocked him down and, in his rage, lifted the blade above his throat, about to kill him –

Suddenly the Nord cried out in pain. Fareen could see why – an arrow had penetrated his right thigh, and seconds later, a guard had him in his grip, hauling him away.

Another guard approached a moment later. He started talking to Fareen.

"I saw what happened. You were very brave, taking that man on alone," the Nord woman said, "But we need you to answer some questions."

Fareen glanced at Dragonsreach.

"You're going to arrest me, aren't you?" He mumbled. She laughed.

"No, we're not going to arrest you. We just need to know anything you can offer about him. The other guards think he may be part of a group of bandits who have been attacking and killing people in this area."

Fareen looked back. "I don't know anything about him. I just saw him attack that woman, so I hit him with the mace."

"Did you see the other one?"

"Yes. He stole some jewellery. I thought you would have him."

She shook her head. "He's long gone. We wanted to catch him and make him tell us where the bandits are staying, we wouldn't need to ask you if we had him."

Fareen then realized how stupid he had been. Now, people would all recognize him. And if Tristane was recognized, and they were ever near each other and the Breton went missing, how long would it take them to think, "That one who took on the bandit might have something to do with this"?

The guard let him go, and he went to the food stall to buy some meat, eating it quickly. His hunger soon disappeared, but he was cut badly and his attention slowly turned to that.

He now had to get back to his job; he worked with Dorthe occasionally, but mainly he would drive a cart with weapons, food and other things to small shops that couldn't grow or make their own products and bought in the objects.

He had a small delivery of weapons and armour and scrolls tomorrow, and then one with spell-books and scrolls later on, and he would have to load up the cart now.

He got home, and figured that Tidril had not helped much during his stay. He didn't want to trouble him but there was a large amount of weapons to load up.

"Tidril!" He yelled. "I need some help here."

Tidril came outside a moment later. "What do you need?"

"I need you to help me load up the cart."

Tidril simply replied, "Okay." He waited for instructions.

"Great! Go inside and you'll find a box in my room with some weapons, bring some out. I'll be there in a moment."

Tidril hurried upstairs. Fareen walked inside, and in the hall was the box with all the books and scrolls. He checked to make sure everything was there.

One book was missing; waterbreath. But in its place was a book that resembled it, with no title. He opened it.

Inside was a drawing. It was very detailed, and obviously a skilled artist had drawn it.

The drawing was of a wood elf lying on the floor of a building that resembled an inn, hands and feet bound. His eyes were shut.

The next page was the same, but from a view higher up; in front of the Elf's head was a mace, an iron dagger, a butcher's knife, a saw and a warhammer. Tables and chairs were cleared away.

The next page, a Breton was standing above the Wood Elf, holding the iron dagger above the face of the Elf. This time, the Elf's eyes were wide open. There was a small cut on the right leg.

The next, the iron dagger was in the chest of the Elf, and the Breton was nowhere to be seen. The Elf was bleeding from the chest, his eyes were open, face contorted in a scream.

There were only a few pages left.

Turning the page, Fareen saw the Breton holding a butcher's knife above the victim's throat. And, like the iron dagger, the next page showed the butcher's knife in the Elf's throat.

The next page, the head was separated from the body. And next, it was in a sack…

Then, the sack was outside a house,

And then Fareen was in the drawing, fighting a bandit.

The second-to-last page showed the waterbreath book in Fareen's pond. Fareen turned the page and saw a High Elf – probably meant to be him – lying dead in the same pond, bleeding from the leg, turning the water red.

Despite the ominous message, Fareen needed the book. He left his house and checked the pond, saw the book, and pulled it out. As he used his flames spell to dry it off, he noticed another person in the reflection.

An Argonian, holding a steel dagger.

He turned around a moment too late, and instead of fighting off his attacker, he got to feel the blade cut his chest. He tried to fight back by jabbing the Argonian in the face, but his attack had no impact. He felt the blade penetrate the flesh in his right leg, and the Argonian performed a kick, pushing him back in to the water.

His femoral artery was severed – though he did not know this – and without help, he would be as lifeless as the drawing depicted him very, very soon.

**(A/N) Dun dun dun!**

**Will Fareen escape alive? Do I **_**really**_** know where you live? Will you leave a review?**

**Respectively, the answers are, possibly, yes, and if you know what's good for you and you believe the answer to the last question is true.**


	5. Chapter 4

_Life. Life is preferable to death in any circumstance, especially when you need to do something with your life._

_Is this what it feels to have every single fear realised? Throughout life, everybody fights to survive. They fight against one constant enemy. Almost every action – even the most basic – is to work towards an ultimately unreachable goal – not dying._

_Eating? You're trying to not starve. Avoiding illness? Safeguarding yourself from diseases that may kill you. _

_Life. The most important thing. It's slipping away and I can't grasp it._

Fareen's eyes opened a little. The Argonian was gone. Tidril was standing over him, eyes wide, calling for help. He grabbed Fareen and pulled him up.

He was holding a red potion.

But Fareen was letting go of life, he couldn't control himself, or anything, really. Death was staring him in the face. Fareen wasn't eager to walk to him but there was no other path.

Tidril grabbed him and poured the potion down his throat. The potion would heal him, hopefully – it would seal up a bit of his wound – but he didn't have long to escape the cold grasp of death.

_Life is meaningless in the end. Nothing at all matters. When you're not dying life is important. But when you're dying, what does anything matter? In a few seconds everything will turn dark. Then nothing will matter._

Tidril was joined by another. A Nord. The Nord looked strong, but not suited to the task of healing him.

_Doesn't matter._

The Nord ran.

_Everything and everyone will abandon you at the end, apparently. _

But about a minute later – and Fareen only survived this long because of the stream of healing potions Tidril desperately poured down his throat – the Nord returned with a Dark Elf. The Dark Elf's hands were glowing yellow.

"Where's the wound?" He asked. The voice was far away.

Then, Fareen realised what was happening. He was right the first time. Life was important. And he wouldn't let go. He flailed around pathetically, only caring about survival.

The Dark Elf was shown his leg, and he started streaming some form of healing magic. It was somewhat reminiscent of the Healing Hands spell he had cast on his parents, but much more powerful. This Elf was probably experienced. And he was thankful for this.

Everything started to turn dark, but he didn't feel like he was dying. He felt… comfortable. Still, he fought to stay awake. Death comes easily when you permit it.

A few hours later, he was in his own home, still being healed. He was weak but the Dark Elf had informed him that he was going to live through the experience.

Clearly the drawing was a reference to what was going to happen to him. But there was a minor difference between the depiction of reality and reality itself; specifically, where on his body the cut would be.

He understood the intention was to sever an artery. He didn't know much about arteries, but knew that the survivability of a severed artery depended on which artery was severed. His femoral artery, fortunately for him, was one of the arteries you can survive for a while severed – compared with the time frame of other severed arteries, that is.

The Dark Elf told him that he was just "lucky it wasn't your Aorta. You wouldn't have survived that." He had asked where it was and learned it was on the abdomen – where the cut was shown.

The artist – probably Tristane – had intended to kill him.

And that was bad.

It wasn't a game anymore. Tristane had decided that Fareen was going to do. Tristane wanted him to die, and now, he would do whatever he needed to end Fareen's life.

A trained assassin with plenty of resources and a group of other trained assassins were trying to kill Fareen.

He was going to die unless he took action.

Naturally, guards had talked to him about the attack, and he had answered their questions. He didn't mention the drawings, or Tristane, or any of those details – the last thing he wanted was them probing for more details which would eventually show him as the one who had burned down an inn and taken justice in to his own hands despite being told not to.

He couldn't tell the guards, he couldn't stop the Dark Brotherhood from killing him by himself, and he was weak, injured and barely alive.

Well, this was a dilemma.

_The Argonian was a fool. Useless. He had ignored the design that Tristane had so carefully prepared and laid out. Wait for the Elf to be lured out, surprise him, cut his Aorta and leave him in the pond. Easy and fast._

_But he was too lazy. He failed._

_Failed._

_And as much as Tristane would have liked to end his life at that time, he didn't have a choice._

_He was in the Forest._

_The Forest of Nightmares, darker than the darkest night, where the most twisted will dwell and all others shall perish._

_He would stay there for a while, living but dead, and then would emerge and satisfy his need to kill. He would often go to The Forest and stay for a long time. Part of him would feed off the immense sense of evil that was there. It would satisfy his need to be there._

_And then, only once he was satisfied and had enjoyed his world, he would emerge from the forest, in to a normal place, and cause a bloodbath. A truly awful sight for anyone unfortunate to watch as he returned._

_When he was in the Forest, his senses would dull. He would become calm, and time would become nothing. He would just… be._

_When he first visited the Forest, it was overwhelming. The power was too strong for him, and he felt fear. He did not belong here. He was not the kind of monster that could live here. He ran for what seemed like hours until he somehow escaped._

_But, after some time, and a considerable amount of killing, it felt a little better to be there. He took no pleasure in it, but it wasn't so horrible. He felt like he had something in common with the trees. He was not so evil and twisted, but there was something they shared._

_As time went by he started to enjoy it. But he could not go there too often; the world was alive, and it grew tired of him if he returned with nothing to add. If he had not killed, caused despair, then him being there was a stain upon the world. Once he returned only three days after leaving, not killing anyone. He approached a tall tree and a limb flung him back home. _

_He would kill for the Forest, knowing one day, he would be part of it, wishing to see himself in its visitors._

_He settled down on a tall tree, closing his eyes, letting go of himself, exploring the evil of the world. He felt the death of everyone in the world. For days, he would enjoy this. But, again, the concept of time did not matter to him when he dwelled in the Forest._

_And nobody would interrupt him. Not now._

_And as he drifted, he felt his last conscious thought that he would have before he emerged from this twisted paradise._

_He was going to love the bloodbath._

_The Need had taken hold again. It had swelled up inside of me._

_I couldn't keep myself away now. I was back there standing over the soon-to-be deceased Nord._

"_WHAT'S HAPPENING?!" He screamed._

_I was angry now. My mentor threw me the blade. It was small, used for medical purposes, for bloodletting._

_It would bloodlet now, but the patient would not be willing. So I sliced across the Nord's chest. He hissed in pain._

"_Stop." The Nord thought he was in control. I would take that away then. I sliced once more._

_The Nord started sobbing. Not because of pain; because he realized what was happening._

"_Did the women sob?"_

_The Nord's eyes were filled with desperation._

"_Please… I'm not…"_

"_Not ready?"_

"_Not ready! Not ready, yes!"_

_I laughed as my mentor watched. I wondered if he had killed recently without me. _

_Nobody is really ready. But I knew the Nord was going to plead no matter what I said, so I leaned over the table._

"_You're going to die tonight. There is nothing you can do to stop that and nothing you can do to convince us to let you go. Accept your death."_

_He sobbed. "No, no, no…."_

_My mentor was angry. He stepped over, pulled the blade from my hand, and leaned over him. "ACCEPT IT!" He sliced his cheek. The cut was admirable._

_A lot of blood was there, pouring from his cheek. I turned around and found the knife._

"_Kill him before I do."_

"_Who are you?" The Nord begged._

"_Your end."_

_And I said nothing more. Let him die with him begging to know who was killing him. Let him die hearing the words he did not want to hear._

_So I satisfied my Need._


End file.
